


Accompany Me

by Anonymous



Category: OMORI (Video Game)
Genre: Begging, Biting, Body Horror, Boys Kissing, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Dom/sub, Dreams, Dubious Consent, Eldritch, Fairy Tale Elements, Fear, Flowers, Guilt, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Pre-Canon, Sadism, Sexual Fantasy, Succubi & Incubi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 05:21:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30117780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: When they were fourteen, they dreamed.Once, they met before they were ready.
Relationships: Basil/Sunny (OMORI)
Collections: Kink Lucky Dip





	Accompany Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MisgivingTree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MisgivingTree/gifts).



✿⊰✲⊱✿⊰✲⊱✿✿⊰✲⊱✿⊰✲⊱✿

It’s a gauzy veil of a dream, the first time, hung high and stretching between cliffs. Eventually, there’ll be forests and junkyards and castles and deep wells and deeper ones, but for now, there’s a simple story. A fairytale, to be told. 

East over the plains and hills and monsters’ lairs, there exists a meadow where flowers of all kinds grow. In that meadow, between the posies and asters, guarded by a circling dragon, there is a single tower, and in that tower hides the Prince Who Cannot Be Seen.

There is a terrible curse about the Prince, so that those who might look upon his face will freeze in place, and those who might touch him will turn into stone. Even from the sun he turns away, so as to not risk its light. 

He sits, alone, in his tower, making flower crowns and waiting for someone to save him. 

Those who were quested with doing so are a pink Bow Knight and a gold Sun Knight and a rainbow Cactus Knight and a blue Hero. They’re missing the green Prince, the one that they used to adventure with, but they’ll get him back no matter how fearsome their opponents are. They aren’t complete without him. 

It's with that determination they set off, full of determination and looking ahead. 

The prickle at the back of his neck... He can look behind him and there’s nothing there. Dead things don’t come back to life. The unease stirs him, and the Sun Knight stares forward. First things first. They need to get the party back together, and then… he swallows. The dragon, the first step in the first step. 

It is a magnificent first step. It circles the tower, huge, long enough to wrap around the sun, belly checkered blue-and-white, confining the Prince in its wicked curls. It’s enormous, and staring directly at it makes the Sun Knight nauseous. But he doesn’t need to. Aubrey looks at him and smiles. Kel holds his hand. Hero points his sword forward. They'll be the eyes to look at it even if he doesn't. They’ll fight their way to it and defeat it together, and save the Prince. 

He takes the first step across the vast plains.

🖑🖑🖑🖑

Waking Basil today is the smell of camellias that still need to be planted. He rubs his eyes and checks the clock. It’s 3:29, and the sun slants golden through the window. 

Right. There was nothing for him to do after he got the cuttings from the neighbor so he went home and napped and now he’s awake. There was nothing else he would have been doing, so he had fallen asleep. He rubs his hands.

The scent of the camellia cuttings has gotten strongly green with their unplantedness. They are there and they need to be planted, so Basil picks up the plastic-wrapped stems and heads to the yard. 

A brisk wind scatters dead leaves against his ankles. Basil kicks most of them away and crunches the rest under his shoes, grinding their leafy bones into powder.

He drags a plastic pot out and shakes the remains of an old plastic bag of peat moss into it, mixing it up with his hands. The hose head dangles over the edge of the pot. The water pressure on the thing isn’t great and he’s flicking his hands with annoyance when the jet makes wet dirt cling to his skin. It's fine... He’ll have to make holes to put the camellia stems in anyway.

The naked stems look a little lonely in the big pot. Basil drags it under a tree with the other shade plants and hopes they don’t feel too bad.

While he’s out, the older camellias need to be trimmed. He finds his shears and prunes off the few remaining brown-edged flowers. But not just that: closer up, the leaves are yellowing at the edges, the telltale sign of them being hungry for plant food. 

The heavy sacks of fertilizer are too heavy to pick up on his own. Basil half-shoves half-drags the bag until he has to take a break, panting.

No one’s there to help him.

He leans against the bag, feeling sweaty and miserably weak. He doesn’t want to drag the huge bag all the way over and he can just go back and forth for a few trips and it’s _fine,_ so he opens it and takes a handful of the deep red fertilizer. 

He makes it two steps when suddenly he can’t breathe. The sun is amber and too warm and the smell of the fertilizer is reaching his nose. He holds his breath and slowly tips his head back when his shoulders won’t loosen. 

Everything is okay… it is… there’s no reason for him to feel scared. Nothing bad has happened in two years. Teeth dig into his fingers. Nothing happened. There’s no reason why anything would happen now. There is no reason for him to be upset so he is not. He is gardening and there’s nothing, never has been, anything wrong with gardening. 

He spreads the blood meal over the roots of the camellia. Pull back the mulch, add the fertilizer, rake the mulch back over, get more fertilizer, one by one.

He looks over the trimmed and fertilized camellias. He puts the shears away, and jams his thumbnail into his fist as he goes over and zips the bag of fertilizer. 

He is going back inside. 

As he turns he catches sight of the tulips, pink and yellow and white in their pots, and looks away. He walks faster and doesn’t look back. 

Polly says hi to him when he goes back. Basil nods to her and she doesn’t stop him from going to his room, and he doesn’t slow down so she doesn’t think to try. 

He wants to think of nice things and tries to go to his photo album, the usual thing he does when he’s upset. Basil’s nails dig into his arm as he stares at the empty space on the shelf. 

He wants to talk to someone, _anyone,_ but what does he say when he’s not suppos ** _—_** when he _doesn’t_ have anything to say? 

Tulips. Blood. The secret. 

No one’s watching him in his room, so no one can see tears that he shouldn’t have. He breathes.

When do you go from thinking that they’re just taking their time to knowing someone has abandoned you?

How long do you stand there waiting?

✿⊰✲⊱✿⊰✲⊱✿✿⊰✲⊱✿⊰✲⊱✿

The heroes’ quest is a difficult but not impossible one. Journeys are meant to be walked. The adventurers are still growing and the monsters’ fangs are sharp, but they’ll keep trying and they’ll beat them in the end. The dragon had cast a shadow over them all, one that swallowed out the sun and is blinding in its place, but they’re getting stronger with each fight. Cutting apart a dragon will be nothing once they’re strong and ready. 

And after that... 

The Sun Knight remembers the smile on the Prince’s face. He misses it. He thinks he wants to see it, even knowing the curse laid on him. 

He remembers how gentle he is. The Prince liked growing flowers and taking photos and wasn’t any good in a fight, but that was part of his charm. (It was why they were rescuing him instead of the other way around.) He always wore flowers in his hair, delicate things that would break apart at a touch. He thinks of how his hand, the nails trimmed short so dirt wouldn’t gather underneath them, would look over his metal knight’s armor. 

“I’ve missed you,” he says quietly, and looks at the tower.

And they do. The Prince was once one of their adventuring party. It was evil and wrong for him to be stolen away, to be locked up where no one can see him ** _—_** no matter the curse. They all miss him. They all wanted him back. 

They just have to kill the dragon. 

The Sun Knight steels his blade.

🖑🖑🖑🖑🖑🖑🖑🖑🖑🖑🖑🖑🖑🖑🖑

Basil has been sitting there for long enough for his eyes to dry sore when he sees it.

There’s a hand in front of him in the midnight-dark. Its fingers are leaden against the sharp blackness of the night, held out as still as a corpse. Beckoning.

Basil hesitates. Was it a really good idea to chase your stress hallucinations into the dark?

Decides, and reaches out timidly to it ** _—_** and its fingers lace with his and pull hard enough to take him off of his feet, too real to be a trick of the light. He stumbles, gathers himself but it doesn’t matter. More arms have reached out from the darkness and latched onto his body and his clothes. He can only turn his head to look back as he’s pulled into the bulk of entangling wrists and curled fingers. 

Hands are everywhere around Basil. Touching, pulling, prying, grabbing, digging into his shoulder. He yanks his hand away from the hand that pulled him in and new fingers engulf his fingers, holding even when he lets go. He opens his mouth, to gasp, to scream, and a hand slides over his mouth. 

Hands that have two puncture marks at the thumb. Hands that jerk at his clothes, trying to pull his shirt up off his body, insistent and then ripping when it sticks on his vest. They brush over the red tooth-marks and older blue bruises, hands somehow more piercing than actual eyes. Every part of him that was sore and guilty open to the flensing touch, grabbed, held, handled. 

Thumbs brush against his neck and the fingers curl and rub him up and down. He tries to move his legs and a stack of hands and wrists adjusts their balance underneath him. Palms rub against the inside of his thigh. Fingers wind and pull his hair. His chest moves up and down when he breathes and the hands shudder along with him. 

They know what he did. They know what he is. He can’t stand eyes but the hands know all his secrets.

He strains his fingers into the hands that hold his hands. Each finger has an individual hand wrapped around it. He breathes, ragged, surging. 

No, he had to do it. He whispers: prayers, justifications, truths, and then he screams them when they peter to nothing against the hand over his mouth. Skin pokes into his mouth, reaching for his tongue, and he bites down on skinny fingertips, feels the thin bones crack and tastes sun-fertilizer-iron. Breaking, again. He had to do it, had to make sure nothing worse happened. He had to protect him.

The hands won’t let him go this time. They only tighten.

Hands whisper with their touch. Soothing, slow, hateful, fast, whispers. He thrashes but they don’t change their voiceless pace. The hand around his neck squeezes. They’re ready to pull him apart. His teeth squeeze together against gritty broken shards. His fingers, his toes, flex, unflex. He doesn't move and he does, because if he had he had to do it, he couldn’t not, he had to, they all hear, and they’re whispering _guilty guilty guilty_ in his ear. The most real thing is it, hands that notched against his stomach and made a bowstring of his body. Him made as an arrow pulled back, he closes his eyes at every tightened muscle, and moans into skin, touched, can feel his throat vibrating against fingers, and they hear ** _—_**

Basil thrashes awake.

The blankets are crumpled around his feet, the warmth that had gripped him rapidly disappearing. 

He had to do it. He had to. 

He’s alone. 

It wasn’t _fair_.

✿⊰✲⊱✿⊰✲⊱✿✿⊰✲⊱✿⊰✲⊱✿

It’s him and the flowers, and a fairytale prince. Around them are scattered blue-and-white segments, frayed, the remains of a dragon now as harmless as bluebells. Maybe they’d once held it with their hands. Any trace of the oils left by their fingers would have been lost, cut to bits and scattered in the grass. 

They sit on the meadow next to the tower and the Prince, face turned away, points out all the flowers he knows and how inside the tower he planted buttercups and grew azaleas and wasn’t even the least bit alone. 

(He never reaches out an ill-fated hand. He never does anything so untoward, so unlike a delicate trapped prince. His fingers are for holding delicate petals on delicate stems where a misaimed touch could break the blooms apart.)

“I missed you,” the Prince says, face turned away and yet still clear among the sundrunk bees and birdsong. “I was waiting for you. I was scared, I thought you hated me or forgot about me but you’re here in the end and that’s what matters. I’m so glad you’re here. I missed you.”

The Prince holds still as the Sun Knight traces a pattern with his gauntlets over his arm. The petal-soft skin under his gauntlets, so soft he could rip apart if he wanted, shred it to bits for how weak the Prince is. He blinks. It’s an idle thought, and with the next wandering wobble of heat it’s gone. 

“I’m so glad you’re here. You came back for me.”

The Prince’s voice trembles, sorrow oscillating as it turns to joy. 

The Sun Knight keeps tracing the same pattern ** _—_** _pressing down, letting up **—**_ and slowly they align, until they’re trembling with the same motion. Nothing they did alone. It was ** _—_** it was a good thing they could see each other again. It wasn’t right for them to have been apart. His breathing calms. It’s just pure sweet happiness now. 

He thinks he might cry. The feeling’s there, the bubbling rupture of emotion that he can’t help but feel. But maybe they’ve both got a better handle on themselves now, because they don’t, and the moment isn’t spoiled. 

“I really missed talking to you. I want it back ** _,_** how you could listen to me talk and talk and we’d have a good time together. How is everyone? Kel and Aubrey and Hero ** _—_** and Aubrey, does she still have a crush on you? Oh, but… I can’t see them yet. Not with the curse. They look at me and all would turn to stone.”

No, it's... he missed him so much, whatever fears he had ** _—_** the danger is past. Curses, magical death, don’t seem so absolute in this air.

It’s so peaceful it doesn’t even tremble as the Prince speaks. 

“You want to see my face? But, the curse, aren’t you scared?” 

He pauses, the silence pregnant. But he’s not afraid. 

“You know what will happen when you see it... what it _means_ … and, still... you want to do it anyway? Are you sure?”

The Sun Knight nods. 

🖑✲⊱✿⊰✲⊱✿⊰✲🖑

“... ...”

"... hey... wake up… Wake up, _Sunny_ ** _—_** ”

His eyes open.

The prince of flowers. 

The green eyed demon. 

It leans over him, knees straddling either side of his body, face lit in shadow.

The line between imagination and reality.

The window is open and the cold night air is filtering through. His eyes slide from the scratches on the windowsill to the shadowy figure on top of him. It’s not an afternoon in the middle of a sun-warmed meadow, is it? 

It watches him with glowing green eyes. The rest of its features are barely visible. 

So that was the curse. The night-creature monster behind the Prince. He feels… 

… afraid.

…

...

...

He raises an arm slowly, moving underwater, unsure whether he’s doing it to push it off or something else.

It cups it in its own hands and presses his lips to the back of his hand. 

The sensation sends warm tingles up his arm.

Is he real? Was he real? Or was he just a fracture of a demon in the night? 

Phantom touches curl up Sunny’s arms as he gets up, gravity tilting, it scrambling to make space. Its hands were cold, left cold marks where it gripped his arm, but its skin is warm under Sunny’s fingers. Warm like a bucket of coals. Something is tightening in his stomach. 

That was the curse, wasn’t it? The terrible curse when you looked into the Prince’s face ** _—_**

And, yet, being this close, close enough for their lips to touch, he’s not turning to stone. 

Those are human lips that touch his. 

Basil breaks off, and, “Sunny,” he mewls, clambering for a grip on the front of his shirt. His voice is whispery, weak. “Why did you leave me? I, I don’t know, only ** _—_** I, I’ve missed you so much.” 

He did, too.

He leans in closer to Basil, and Basil accepts him gratefully, wrapping him in his arms, as softly clingy as ivy that hugs its way up a tree.

“I’ve missed you so much I miss your touch being touched Sunny where have you been why didn’t you come out I’m so glad I can touch you now.” Needy, ivy Basil. Sunny lets go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. 

Basil’s hands are cold and his arms steadily warmer the further up he goes. Sunny leans into him and thinks of resting his head on his shoulder, flowers dripping from their heads, closing his eyes and dozing on each other like cats sunning themselves. 

He turns his head and sees Basil from the back, hair spun artemisia-gray in the moonlight.

He’s not terrifying at all. He really was always the same. There… there really was nothing to be afraid of. 

It’s a little to prove it to himself and it’s a little because he wants to see it happen when he shoves his head into Basil’s stomach with a little more _force_ than would be gentle. He sees only the edge of Basil's shocked expression, and then Basil withdraws in kind, sways with him, unresisting, pulling, like sinking into a pillow. When it would seem like a second more and they’d both go tumbling on the ground Basil takes a step back, balancing them both. 

Basil is backed up so easily against the wall. And all the while he’s pulling him in, still breath-whispering against Sunny’s ear about how he wants it more.

Sunny leans into Basil's neck this time, considering the tremble of the knob of his neck, the delicate skin. He leans in. Basil’s neck hops and makes a soft, sudden sound that’s entirely consumingly loud this close up, the skin as soft and delicate and giving under the tongue as daisy petals, and around his back Basil’s arms pull tighter, Basil’s chin tickling the top of his head. 

His voice throttles as Sunny presses down or lets go, a trembling instrument made of his body. “I trust you… Sun _ny_ , you… I’ll follow your lead… you" —a hop— "you can do this…”

He moves back, looks up, and Basil's pupils are blown wide, liquid pools of shining in the moonlight. They entangle and kiss again, Basil making the same soft noises. 

One of Basil's hands making indents into Sunny's arm, the other wrapped around Sunny’s wrist, guiding his hand to his chest, then lower, lower, lower.

A fluttering warmth is stirring in Sunny. Basil, _Basil_ , so utterly wanting him. 

He can barely see it, muted and shaded in the dark, but _oh_ , can he feel it. Soft and warm and alive, and getting more alive by the moment. It’s so tender. If he were to squeeze… Basil would shriek, writhe, try to claw him off, stare up at him with betrayal. It’s tender and warm in his hand. He doesn’t squeeze. 

Basil hasn’t stop touching him, even with Sunny as the one holding Basil. Sunny wonders if he's going to grip Sunny's hand and rub himself off with it, but he doesn't. His fingers drift in hesitant points and forefingers over every part of the back of Sunny’s hand. Floating over the knuckles, ghosting over the sensitive drape of skin between thumb and first finger, pin-stars of sensation, trying to touch but hesitant, finally touching and immediately shying away.

He's so close. He can hear Basil's breathing.

“Sunny _please **—**_ touch me please I need your hands I need you please touch me… I want you I want you I need your hands your beautiful hands.”

Basil’s eyes flash. Sunny feels them pierce through him. 

His voice is perfectly clear. 

So many hands. Beautiful hands. Horrifying hands. 

Sunny’s hands, how Basil looks at them reverently.

His hands.

His hands that _pushed_ falling down and cracking and breaking and skin on bone on wood and his murderous hands that touched cold clammy hands that wouldn’t let go that alone he _ **—**_

“Sun̵ņ̵y̶̹,̴ w̵̭͘ ̶̽h̸̡̕ ̷͕͝ả̵ ̵̖́t̸͉’̴̯s̸͎͒ ̶̥̚ ̸̹͠ ̸ ̴̹͝ ̶̹ ̴̗͂ ̶̙ ̴̜͗ ̶̡ ̷̥̆ ̸͜͝w̴̼ ̴̳̑r̸̯ ̵̰ơ̴ͅ ̴̹ ̸n̶̼ǵ̵̩?̸”

He’s staring down such bright green eyes.

“I killed her,” Sunny says.

There are ** _—_** arms hands fingers endless appendages cold bars caging him in. He breathes, hot and short. If he tried to pull away now, would barbs sink into his arm? Basil is doing something. Sunny snaps backwards ** _—_** sharp and frighteningly hot, breaking against things that won't let go ** _—_** and with ignited hot desperation he slams against them again, and he’s separate, all his own pieces with no Basil attached to his skin. 

He backs away. He runs.

The bathroom has a lock from the inside. The white tile is cold and silent. The bathroom is safe.

 _“ **S̷u̷n̷n̷y̴** ,”_ Basil cries from behind the door, until he doesn’t. 

He can’t get him in here. 

His arms are shiny red in the dark. The glow closes his eyes. He reaches his hands to his head. 

Beautiful adventures… flower meadows, flower boys… his _name_. 

Black and white looks so much better. 

There was no going back, was there? Not in pastel dreams and peaceful towers. Reality was always sharper. Lit in black and white. He doesn’t look behind him. He knows there’s something he’ll see. Did he really think he could escape it, think that if he ignored it that meant it never had to exist? That nobody would be changed? But if he doesn’t look. The room is black and white safety around him. He doesn’t look in the mirror. 

White space is safe. 

The sun is rising from how it’s lightening the crack under the door. The house is silent. 

He thinks, he’s ready to go to bed.


End file.
